The Werewolf Ate My Homework
by moonys revenge
Summary: This is one take on the old fan enters potterverse story line. What happens when one girl with a special gift tries to help Harry


**The Werewolf Ate My Homework,**

**The Boa Ate More Than The Wash,**

**There's a Ghost With 3 Green Eyes Complete With Red Underwear **

**And I've Ingested Way Too Much Harry Potter Fan Fic**

**Or How One Muggle Landed Herself in the Potterverse**

**And Decided to Try and Change History**

**CHAPTER 1**

**Flies On Walls and How This All Got Started**

I was always one of those people with a boring life living in not exactly a one horse town more, like a one horse house, spending free time in front of a TV, movie or in my latest book obsession (usually TV or movie though, visual representation was always so much more fun); I always longed to be a part of the adventures I saw. My first imaginary friend was Vincent from the 80's TV show Beauty and the Beast, who lived under my grandmother's porch; give me a break I was 7. I talked to myself and, at least for a while really did think I had an invisible fuzz bucket (just like in the movie of the same title); I imitated the Ninja Turtles, detectives from things like Murder She Wrote, thought one of the closets in my mother's house was the portal to Narnia, and in 7th grade completed a writing test, something about being your hero, placing myself in a day in the life of Michael Jackson- (based on an article in Disney Adventure's Magazine complete with fun facts, his interview with Oprah and anything else I could glean); even then I was starting to consider myself a junior expert. And let me just stop you here to say no I'm not insane and this story will not end with me waking up in a mental ward having dreamed it all. Yes I had, and still have, a vivid imagination; by the time I got around to reading JRR Tolkien I longed to be a fly on that wall and, as I wrote in a poem once, right the wrongs in that great history. And my times in the wizarding world are not my first wanderings into things magical, mystical, fantastic or literary, only the latest in a growing list that no one would ever really believe past the age of 4. Hence why I keep it secret, spending most of my time living the clichéd double life we read so much about in such stories; still I consider it an honor an a privilege to be able to _be_ and to _see_ the worlds that inspired my dreams, all I ever wanted. Yes, my name is Niki, nothing else, just Niki (I had one of those parents who had bad luck with names, bad luck for the recipient that is; my first name sounds Russian and so inspires the constant question are you, my middle name means she out shines the stars according to the baby book or wherever it was gotten, and my last name inspires confused looks from everyone outside my home state. I had it legally changed on a trip to California in the days when I still hoped to become a music star) and this is how I became more than a fly on the wall of what many muggles call the potterverse.

It started with an idea I had while reading The Prisoner of Azkaban the scene in The Leaky Caldron where Mr. Weasley tells Ms. Weasley they're no closer finding Sirius Black than inventing self spelling wands. (US paperback Pg. ) A wicked idea started in my head- invent self spelling wands and muggles could join the fun too or at least defend themselves and I knew just the person to do it, Hermione Granger touted as the brightest witch of her age. If only I could get there and convince her to do it. Well after reading book 4 and of Voldermort's seemingly inevitable return, crying my way the end of through book 5 and throwing book 6 across the room when finished, I found myself with a familiar feeling longing to right the wrongs of wizarding history. So it was no surprise when I found myself in the library looking at an atlas on England looking for Surrey and little Whinging, just to see if it was a real place; I could then at least put myself in the correct geography and see if my gift for landing in movie, literary and other adventures would hold one more time. By the time I left for the day, having looked at everything I could think of, I found that at least Surrey was real and even if Little Whinging wasn't, in Harry's world it was muggle and if I could get to his world, I could get there. That would depend on my gift; the only thing left to do was wait and hope, because I was getting yet another feeling I knew all to well, one that said Harry's world wasn't so make believe and Voldermort might find his way across the shores to America. Months later life in my boring end of the world continued I was in college between classes, the usual chaos that surrounded my family of late and trying to carve out any social life what so ever, all real expectation of landing in the Potterverse was forgotten but not daydreams of what I would do if I ever did. One afternoon I was packing an overnight bag to go stay with my friend Alex, the plan was eating cupreous amounts of junk food, get sugar high from soda and candy, watch movies, talk Harry Potter, and if I had my way, a miniature food fight; I should have known something was up after all my last excursion started out very much the same way, packed an overnight bag in summer, woke up to a chilly fall in Rivendell. I never made it to Alex's.

The first time I met Harry it was the summer before his 3rd year that was my first fore into the greatest literary achievement to date and the first step to being in the wizarding world. It was where I found myself instead of Alex's pell-mell furnished living room complete with her unmistakable style. No, I suddenly found myself on a dark cool street wondering momentarily what the f- was going on; then I saw it, a street sign that read Privet Drive. Well no more wondering about where I was and for a moment I had my unmistakable ear to ear gin firmly planted on my face, like the 12 year old I tried to be, but then reality set in. Walking over to the post holding the sign Privet drive I leaned my head against it with a groan of uh-no. Why couldn't I ever come into one of these things prepared; all I had was my over night bag. Why couldn't I just once come into one of these things with the things I actually needed for the mission? Yes it was an honor an a privilege, but that didn't mean it didn't come with work and a lot of it, usually on superfluous minutia that had nothing to do with the task at hand- saving what ever world I just landed in. Parking my butt on the curb reaching for my bag, the giant black duffle bag my mom bought me the year I begged for it at Christmas, when I still had thoughts of running far, far away and realized all the ones she had and would never miss were far too small, long since forgetting the excuse I piled her with for needing it. The contents consisted of 2 changes of clothes, 2 sets of pajamas, hand full of underwear, 4 pairs socks, 3 tangled sports bra's, my latest attempts at poetry housed in several notebooks I wanted to show to Alex, 3 or 4 pens, rough draft notebook, the CD's I'd taken out of the large case at home to blast at Alex's in the smaller case (not counting those now). Reaching for my purse, I opened it to find what I always carried, change purse, wallet luckily it had about $150 in it in case I had to take a cab across town and I had learned the hard way about being around Alex, or anywhere without money and I.D. There was my state non- driver I.D, American debit card for a bank account with only about 50 bucks in it, various cards for businesses, stores and crap all in the states. I was using my breath to blow my African American, nappy, dull, frizzy black hair out off my forehead, thinking about finding a payphone, when panic struck; all of my money was U.S. dollars, not British pounds, I was in a foreign country without a passport lacking any good reason why I didn't have one and sitting under a street sign in a neighborhood known for nosey old bats with nothing better to do than spy on each other, or anyone who happened to be around. Money had just never been a problem before not in Neverland, Narnia was a different sort of place all together, I ruefully remember asking Aragorn what the hell people did for money around here during my time in Middle Earth; oh shit, here we go again and I hadn't done this before. Dark though it was, I had no idea of the time; it could be nearly dawn for all I knew. Instinctively I reached into my pocket pulling out the Spiderman watch with the broken band, bought out of necessity when I'd left home without mine and found myself stranded at the mall with a buss to catch on time, carried now because I'd managed to lose my other one. I couldn't read the numbers in the dark and it was one of the cheap ones without a light; it was pointless anyway since obviously this wasn't the same time zone.

I decided to head for a payphone, try dialing for an operator and see if I could get a look at a phone book; I had decided that if I got someone on the other end of the line I'd ask for the American embassy, who could at least tell me who to call about exchanging money and what to do about my "lost" passport. After a walk that seemed an eternity cursing the fall I had taken on an icy parking lot, that only made my existing muscle disorder worse, I found the payphone. Unfortunately not much else, when the operator gave me the number and address I hiked up my sleeve to scrawl it on my arm, the thing I could reach easiest since my bag was finally staying on my back where I had jerry rigged it by letting the short loops meant to be used as a handle dig painfully into my upper arms, only to find the embassy closed and a recoding for office hours. The phonebook I'd only half expected to actually look at, was indeed there, unlike so many you find missing, but it looked like someone's dog ate it or tried to- literally. With ragged edges, torn and missing pages, half pages, all kinds of hand doodled graffiti and being coated in a sticky substance mixed with dirt, I hesitated to even pick it up. Despite all the days I'd spent wandering, in worse places than this, I still hand an aversion to things slimy, sticky and germ filled; it turned out to be illegible for what I needed, thus yielding nothing. Exhausted and pain filled, I slumped down on the pavement, really unable to walk anymore for now, deciding if anyone showed up I'd say I was waiting for a phone call or pretend to be homeless; a bunch of suburbia types probably wouldn't notice any more than to say some scathing comments about degenerates, society today, or yell get a job.

Sitting on the pavement waiting for the pain to ease and trying to think what's next, I was again struck with the irony of kid with disability wants to play hero and actually gets the chance and a nagging thought as I moved my legs- I'm getting too old for this. The cool air brought me out of my existentialist, or at least that's what my friends called it, revelry; I had more immediate problems, where to sleep tonight. A look at the horizon told me there was a residential area not far away, the kind where people likely had garages and some goofball was always leaving the door up; maybe I could make it there without having to crawl. 3 trips around the suburb and sure enough I found a garage door left wide open and mechanisms for door operation mounted in the wall; that would make it easier to get out if the occupants were gone by the time I left in the morning. This one has a nice cupboard or closet filled with various odds and ends, nothing of urgent importance, like if they all they sudden decided they needed something and found you lounging in it, and room enough to lie down. This too brought back memories of somewhat darker days of street roaming when I had left home in an attempt to get a life, or a better one; I met some of my dearest friends there wandering the streets. Foul things did sometimes bring people together; on the whole this was posh compared to some of the rain drenched, filth covered, reeking, retched places I'd slept in the past. I was going to miss my bed tonight but tomorrow I'd start to unravel the passport mess, exchange my money, hopefully ending up with more of it and see about contacting Harry, that is if I could find a way to do it without sounding like a complete nut.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of a woman, whose voice was echoed to a screech by the wall structure of the garage.

"Come on honey your going to be late it's nearly 8:00; you know you have to be to work by 9:00.

Herb, come on!" The woman bellowed.

Moments later I heard the car start and 2 doors slam; they were both gone. I had startled when I woke up but kept my wits enough to stay hidden; judging by the lack of discovery I surmised that I still didn't snore, talk in my sleep or have a nightmare. The latter was only a bit more likely than the former; it'd been 2 years since my last adventure and the scary, scary stuff had had time to dull its edges to the things heroes remember with wistful reminiscence. Sitting up properly and starting to work the kinks out of various joints and muscles, I recalled what the woman said nearly 8:00; the embassy opened at 9:00. By the time I got back to the payphone, to get the information I needed, it would be open the problem was getting where I needed to go, London probably. It couldn't be that far; I knew from the books Vernon Dursley had driven Harry there to catch the train. If it had been too far, he wouldn't have bothered and I was only a few blocks from the Dursley's now. I retuned to the payphone to discover, after being connected to the embassy, that there was both a passport station and a money exchange station at the airport in London; now all I needed was to get there. That took almost the whole day; by the end of the journey I was beginning to think I was going to be spending the night in the London subway waiting for the airport to open again. Yeah I spent the day enduring glares that clearly read stupid American tourist, in cars with people who made me keep a pen in my hand prepared to jab it in their neck, eye socket or any other orifice I could reach should the need arise and that hand balled into a hard fist should I have to go for another tender spot. When I finally got to the airport, I headed for money exchange and was reminded why I hated both air travel and rock concerts; apparently I had picked exactly the wrong time of both day and year, because the place was packed to the gills and the noise was deafening. While sitting not standing in line, much to the angry, rude glares of those around me, not that I cared because I had not gotten this far in my life by pushing my, defective since birth, body beyond it's limits, I rummaged through my bag to see if I had anything to quell the morning breath I knew I still had, owing to not having bushed my teeth today and lacking the tools to do so. Looking bad enough, I didn't want to increase the possibly homeless perception; I'd be arrested for vagrancy next and deported on charges of treason, if not executed without a passport and a plausible excuse. The passport authority was much more likely to buy the silly American lost passport story than the police after they arrested me, and it would avoid sticky questions, like why I hadn't just gone home, instead of getting picked up. Not that I couldn't weave a story around it, but after not having eaten in almost 2 days, (I was saving my appetite the day before for the food at Alex's), and the day I already had, I was playing it safe until I had pound notes in my hand and, if possible some kind of temporary passport as well. Luckily for me I found an ancient, half rancid travel bottle of mouthwash (was this from the vacation we took in 2000?) wedged in a corner along with 2 warm but possibly chewable pieces of bubble gum. Since I knew gum made me hungry, I opted to try and down some of the dubious mouthwash; with little sips I managed to choke down enough not to smell like I had been hit with a spell that caused horrendous dog breath without choking, coughing loudly or spraying the people ahead in line.

After exchanging almost all my money, nearly doubling it and extricating myself from the queue, I heaved a sigh; the real work was about to begin. I lugged myself and my overnight bag toward the passport station and hesitantly looked up at the desk attendant and said I… I…

"Well spit it out girly." Came the man's voice, in an accent that had the markings of the British version of trailer trash, or at least I hoped that's why I could barely understand him.

I took a deep breath and put on my best business like tone, "I've lost my passport are their papers I need to fill out or something? I'm not from around here…"

"That I could tell;" he cut me off

"I was here on vacation…"

"Fill these out." He shoved a clipboard at me.

It asked for all the standard information name, address, country of origin, destination. I hastily wrote the answers on the form and was issued a temporary passport good for 2 weeks.

If I had been capable of running out of out of the airport I would have; it was only then that it struck me, how easy it had been. Recognition dawned again as I thought of what had transpired; I had gone back in time and this was, by best guess summer 1993 not 2005 like at home. Pre 9/11, pre shoe searches to get on planes, pre striking fear into the heart of the world; thank God for small favors. Outside and away from the ear splitting noise of the airport, I groaned 2 weeks, 2 weeks to find a way into the wizarding world or… go home; _with what money_ _it took ant Jane probably close to 2 grand to fly round trip across the country never mind international travel, never mind we were talking so much more than time zones here! Enough _I said quietly my gift got me here it would get me home when my task was done; now I had other things to concentrate on like finding a some dive motel that I could afford and making friendly contact with the reasonably suspicious Harry Potter.

Looking around what little I could see of London all I really saw was things designed to attract tourists, which meant expensive; if I was going to be around long enough to get Harry to trust me and hopefully take me into his world, places you can't get without magic or a wand, the money I had was going to have to last. I decided to hail a cob off one of the main roads; when the guy looked like the descriptions of Mugdoungus Fletcher, I squelched my inner revulsion, leaned into the window and asked, "Know of any cheap Motel's, inns lodgings" I babbled unsure of the terminology and unsure how much this guy (?) would understand.

"Yes, yes get in." was his response.

"Tourist spots not for you 'ey?"

"Can't afford them." I said tiredly as the cab wound down small allies and I started to realize how much in need of a bed I really was.

"Rough time?" the driver questioned.

_Had he picked up on my despondency; was every cab driver this nosey regardless of country, or was I just that transparent? _ "You mean the part where I lost my passport, or how I came here to help a friend and it's taking 10 times longer than I expected and now the money's running out, or perhaps you mean what am I doing in _your_ cab? Where are we going anyway?

The mischievous smile he gave made me uneasy;_ was this guy trying to pick me up? Oh god that's all I need; is the world ever without closet pervs and since when did they ever pay attention to me? My friend BJ on the other had always had some creep trying to do something with her or to her while she walked around in normal clothes and tried to do the most mundane things like walk home from work or get groceries. Don't tell me I'm going to end up on the British end of that!_

"Easy, Easy." His voice had brought me out of my musing. "The place is right up the road; it's not much but it's cheap… he hesitated, and I didn't mean to pry."

"Thank you." I smiled weakly. It's just been a long day." I yawned and tried to relax.

A few moments later I was sitting outside a dingy motel with letters missing from the sign giving its name and advertising the "amenities" within. Things I only barely noticed as I shoved the appropriate amount of money in the driver's hand said another quick but sincere thank you and walked dazed into the building. The dingy, stained walls covered in hideous flower print paper that looked as though it dated back to the invention of such things along with the thread bare carpet, demolished payphone and snatches of graffiti all told me I was where I needed to be if not in the "right" place; it was cheap 30 pounds per day for a bed, tiny toilet and shower, towels that looked coated in, at best, body fluids (I would speak to the desk clerk in the morning about new ones), but now it was time for some sleep, finally. I mechanically striped and changed into my pajamas subconsciously noting both how much I needed a shower and what a problem laundry was going to be as a drifted off to sleep.

When I awoke with a jolt it took me more than a few minutes to have some remembrance of where the hell I was; I felt like I had had one of my, what I liked to call, twilight zone dreams, the ones where it all seemed like your normal surroundings but the prickles on the back of your neck, the twist in your gut and the panic in your chest say otherwise. Then like a key clicking into a lock it all came back, Potterverse, London, help Harry- right; I flopped back onto the bed wishing I could just simply pull the sheets up over my head and go back to sleep. I decided to try the former just for a minute or 2; the smell that met my nostrils only sprung me into action, silently screaming: _the glories of cheap ass hotels humph! _ After visiting the toilet, seeing no one had changed the towels, deciding I didn't give a crap if someone saw me in my Tom & Jerry PJ's and pocketing my wallet to prevent theft, I went in search of the desk clerk, the lone maid they might have working in this kind of dive, anyone. I found the desk clerk about two feet down the hall from my room carrying teetering stacks that consisted of 2 bath towels, one hand towel, 2 washrags and a wrapped bar of soap on top of which was found 2 bath towels, one hand towel 2 washrags, and a bar of soap exc. The stack reached to just above his hairline and I wondered how he could see where he was going

"Morning miss." he said leaning around his stack of towels looking quizzically at my pajamas. At least they didn't say property of Alkatraz.

Boldly I stepped forward, "I'll take that." I stated with the false confidence I'd coolly learned over years of always being in unfamiliar surroundings. When he made no objection and there was not hint of a dirty look I took my towels back to the room, deposited the old ones, held in 2 fingers only, in a heap next to the main door, showered, put on clean clothes and moved on to the next order of business- food. Before leaving the room, I scattered a few wadded pieces of paper about, left out a pair of underwear and stashed my bag well under the bed so anyone changing the sheets wasn't likely to find it yet no one would think I checked out; at least I hoped so. No one was at the desk when I came down the stairs to what passed for the main lobby so I simply when out the doors to see what I could see; within two blocks I'd seen filth lined streets over flowing dumpsters, boarded up businesses ahhh and finally the British version of a convenience store. I entered, quickly looked around, found the lowest priced items that looked as close to their versions of generic brand potato chips cookies, something passing for beef Jerky I thought, anything non- perishable that didn't require a can opener or microwave since I wasn't in possession of so much as a pair of scissors. I maneuvered my armload of food and soda pop toward the check out, handed the man his money, collected my bags and headed for the curb. I slouched down on the pavement; my legs were throbbing again.

Suddenly starving I went for a bag of chips and a soda measured in a metric number I vaguely remember using in a unit of high school math. After downing half of both I continued up the block; I never had time for sight seeing and I was looking for something, I just wasn't sure exactly what. My silent question was answered when I found a street vender selling what reminded me of giant beach towels; the ones in the room felt like sand paper. Besides it would double as a blanket when I eventually had to leave the motel, I could use it as a bag for my food or as something to lay between me and the filth if I was sleeping on a park bench rather than fighting homeless people in the vacant spaces of the London tunnel. I purchased one with purple shades of ocean and black sea floor, as if it was modeled after said area at twilight. Having spent more than enough of my limited money I wondered back to the dive, paid for another days stay and spent the rest of the daylight hours watching bad British TV and trying not to move my already over taxed lower limbs

I often thought of Harry and what it was I could do to help him; I knew the bad year he had coming up. But I also remembered it as one of my favorite books, the one having only passing mention of Voldermort or death eaters; for that matter, why was I sent back here to this year? Of course I knew too that inventing a new type of wand was the kind of thing that could take years and it would be a feat for even the great Hermione Granger if she could do it in the timeline of the 5 remaining books, never mind in time to be of any use in changing the things to come, yet here I was trying it anyway.


End file.
